At Peace With Her
by Tarafina
Summary: He just needed to hear her voice, needed it to go on... :Rogan:


**Title**: At Peace With Her  
**Category**: X-Men: The Movie  
**Rating**: R  
**Genre**: Angst/Romance  
**Pairing**: Logan/Marie (Wolverine/Rogue)  
**Word Count**: 1,759  
**Summary**: He just needed to hear her voice, needed it to go on...

**_At Peace With Her  
_**1/1

He hated payphones, always had the urge to wipe them off before he touched them. Breathing through his nose so the stench of those before him didn't invade his senses, he stepped inside and picked up the black receiver, dropping a few loonies through the slot and waiting for the pause in dial-tone before he punched in the eleven digit number.

His eyes were quick to search the darkness around him. It was late, too late for just anybody to be walking the streets. There were a few hookers he'd passed, eyeing him up as their next John and moving on when they were met with a cement wall of indifference. He had a motel room four blocks down, a beat-up truck parked in front was his only transportation. But driving it to the phone wasn't smart; he needed it somewhere safe, just in case he needed to make a sudden escape.

He wasn't on the run, wasn't being chased, but damn it all if he didn't always feel like he was. Government, scientists, Brotherhood bastards, somebody always seemed to be on his tail and his luck never lasted long. Six weeks he'd been on the road, chasing after nightmares and finding nothing of real importance. The only thing that kept him going was hearing her on the other end of the phone, knowing that wherever he was, whatever he did or whatever happened to him, he had something good to get back to in the end. She knew he needed this, understood why she couldn't come along and he assured himself and her that when it was over, when he knew all he could, then he'd go back to her.

There were too many reasons that it was wrong; she was still too young, but then hell, she could never catch up to him, not really. And wasn't everyone too young? Mentally, he didn't know anybody as old as her. All those minds, their genius and their savage, all floating around in her once innocent subconscious. Even him, in there muddling up the sweet girl he'd met all those years ago. She was twenty-one now and it took two hands to count how many people she had to deal with in her head.

But in the end, she was still the sweet Marie he'd always known; she battled away the other voices, the other influences and she came out strong, the victor. And it was _her_ voice that he needed to hear right now; _her_ reassurance that all would be good and okay. That the day where he found what he needed to was close and so the day he'd return to her was too.

He could already hear her in his ears, despite the constant, impatient ringing that was really sounding from the phone. _Can't sleep without me?_ She'd tease, her tone lilting with the smile that curved her lips. And he'd play like he wasn't the least bit lost without her; that he didn't miss the heat of her body next to him or the stroke of her fingers against his mutton chop in the early morning. But she'd know; she always did.

_Bet you wish you could wake up and see me there_, she'd murmur. _You reach out for me every mornin', doncha sugar?_

And he'd nod, even though she couldn't see him. Because he did, every damn morning and when he came up empty it left him in a bitter mood. He'd jump in the shower to shake it off, turning it up hot and scalding his skin to force himself out of his wants and desires before facing another day of likely disappointment, all the while wishing he could just put this hunt off and go back to her.

He thought he caught something out of the corner of his eye, his head turned swiftly. Shadows. More street-walkers. Shaking it off, he focused on the phone, waiting for her delicate voice to come through. She always knew it was him.

"Hello?"

His brow furrowed so quickly it was nearly painful. "Scooter?" he ground out. "What the hell are you doin' answerin' my phone?"

"Logan," he said, lacking the usual irritation the laced every conversation between them.

He rolled his eyes, snorting. "No shit. You gonna explain or do I-"

A sharp sigh cut him off. "Calm down."

That only pissed him off further and suddenly his mood went to all new levels. "Put her on. Now."

"Logan I-"

"Now," he growled severely.

"I can't."

Logan's cheek flexed as his teeth ground together. "Can't or won't?"

Another heavy sigh. "I need you to listen to me. Don't interrupt, don't argue, just listen."

Against his better judgment, Logan shut up. And it wasn't because he had any sort of respect for Scott, no, but there was a definite shiver of fear making its way up his spine and he didn't like that one goddamn bit.

"There was a mission and Rogue wanted to help..."

Those were the only words that kept repeating in his head. He said more, a lot more, he went into detail about a fight that they were heavily outnumbered in. He was sure to tell Logan how bravely she fought, how she went down saving someone else, how she didn't suffer, not really. And all the while, Logan slid down the side of booth, holding the phone so tightly in his grasp he could hear the plastic snapping.

"...punctured her lung. I tried to stop the bleeding but I couldn't. I... I tried. I did. I moved her to Blackbird, I called everyone back in. There were too many, the losses were too great. She said she was okay, she looked peaceful. I... I thought we could make it back in time..."

The light inside the booth was dim, flickering. He had the absurd thought that somebody should replace it. Didn't they have people to do that? Wasn't their some technician in this godforsaken rat-hole town that could make sure the lights in the fucking phone booths didn't die when somebody was trying to call their loved ones?

"...Logan? Are you listening?"

He didn't reply.

"Logan?" A sigh. "We tried to contact you. The professor... He couldn't find you. We... It all happened so fast and... Look, I knew you'd call and I know... I know I'm probably the last person you wanted to hear this from, but... She asked me... She asked me to tell you myself. She told me I had to tell you, that you... That you'd take it better from me. And... I just..." There was a hitch in his voice; emotion, regret, pity, sorrow.

The ground of the phone booth was cold, dirty and it smelled of vomit. Somebody had a few too many, called for a ride, didn't bother sticking their head out when dinner and Vodka came back to haunt them. His stomach clenched and he thought for a moment that his vomit would join theirs; maybe he'd mark this place with the putrid stench of his own worst nightmare.

"She told me... She told me I had to make sure you came back. I... I told her there was no way I could guarantee it... You wouldn't want to. I knew you wouldn't. She knew you wouldn't. But... But she didn't think you'd be safe out there, not after you knew."

He closed his eyes, pressed the heel of his free hand against his brow, wanting to force the ache there away. This couldn't be happening. Ten minutes ago he'd been leaving some piss-tank of a motel, wanting nothing more than to hear her tell him she loved him. And now... Now she was... She was...

"She's gone," he choked out, fumbling, his throat tightening.

"I- I'm sorry. I don't... I don't know what else to say."

His knuckles itched, he could feel his claws coming and for one entirely too dark moment, he wondered if he was going to destroy his surroundings or himself.

_Snikt_.

"Don't."

Tears, too hot, too painful, too knowing, burned his eyes from the inside out.

"She wouldn't want-"

"Fuck you."

"I understand why... I know what you're feeling and I know... I know how easy it would be to just..." He could hear him swallow. "But think about _her_ for a second, just.... Just think about what she'd say right now and ask yourself... Would she want you to?"

He didn't reply, in fact he let go of the phone, let it dangle their. "Logan?" Crisp, worried, tense voice reaching out into the booth, reaching for ears that no longer wanted to hear him.

His other hand lifted, knuckles placed tight against his jugular. Swift, easy, quick, just a plunge and a twist and his head would be off. Fuck if that would grow back. And it'd be over, gone, and then what? Death, darkness, the true end? Would he have her again? Did he believe in that God and everlasting life bull? No. Hell no. But even never-ending darkness, without thought or feeling, without regret or sadness or pain, would be better than a life without her, wouldn't it?

He remembered her so vividly; big brown eyes, coquettish smile, soft brown hair with that streak of reminding white. And her hands, forever bound in gloves, reaching for him, gripping his own, fingers threaded. Kisses against mutton chops, long dark lashes over sleepy eyes, watching him as he slowly roused from sleep. Nightmares, cuddling reassurances that he was okay, that she was okay, that they were safe and together, that nothing could ever get them now. Sighs, low, husky, long; plunging fingers in hair, nails tearing at his shirt, her curvy hips thrusting, meeting. Scarves, nylons, claws slicing open her favorite pajama pants. Kisses, quick, fast, just a mere twinge of her power sucking at his lips; daredevil, always tempting fate.

_Logan_, her voice, longing, sweet, temptation in silken whispers. _I want you. I need you. I love you. I love you. I love you._

A sob wrenched from his throat, a line of blood coursed down as he nicked himself, uncaring, unknowing. A growl, fierce, angry, sorrowful, echoed through the booth, through the phone, and at last, there was no one calling for him anymore, nobody trying to convince him of anything. Just quiet, just dark silence. A click, hanging up, farewell.

The stench of vomit would be overpowered come morning and nobody would need super-senses to know what it meant. Death; gory, sad, forever. And with it, for at least one, peace.


End file.
